


like unquenchable coals

by addandsubtract



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, Consent Issues, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 02:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: When Ryan and Dylan were kids, they used to switch bodies.





	like unquenchable coals

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place last season, while dylan was playing with the roadrunners and ryan was still an oiler. 
> 
> it's also not a very nice story, so if you're looking for a happy ending for everyone involved, uh. please don't. the consent issues tag is a real thing, please mind it.

When Ryan and Dylan were kids, they used to switch bodies. Someone would refer to one of them by the other’s name, and that was that. They’d stay that way until they were called the right name again. It happened fairly regularly — their mother yelling for one of them and meaning the other, coaches that had had them both on teams over the years — but it tapered off once they left home to play hockey. Different leagues, different levels, and not that much crossover. They weren’t together as often or as regularly mistaken for each other. The last time Ryan can remember was briefly during Dylan’s draft, just long enough for Ryan to flounder his way through a conversation with Mat Barzal and then end up back in his seat in the audience. 

So when Ryan blinks and he’s sitting on a couch next to Nick Merkley, one of Dylan’s buds in Tucson, his first instinct is to think what the fuck. He’d been playing with Connor off and on the whole first period, working hard to keep up, and now he’s not. Now he’s here. He feels stretched out, pulled taut, and when he looks down at his hands, they aren’t his. He’d know his own hands anywhere. He’d know Dylan’s hands, too.

“Dylan?” Nick says, not annoyed, because Ryan isn’t sure that Nick gets annoyed, but like he’s been trying to get Ryan’s attention for awhile — or, Dylan’s attention.

“Goddammit,” Ryan says, too loud, the tone all wrong. It’s been too long since this last happened, he doesn’t quite remember how to play it off.

“What?” Nick asks, and then he squints at Ryan. Ryan wonders if they were smoking up — he doesn’t feel high, but Nick looks it.

“Nothing, uh. I bit the inside of my cheek,” Ryan says. It’s not worth trying to explain when Nick wouldn’t believe him anyway. Easier just to pretend to be Dylan for as long as he’s stuck here. Or try, anyway. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“You’re acting fucking weird,” Nick says, and Ryan snorts a painful laugh.

“Too much caffeine?” He says it like he’s hazarding a guess and Nick rolls his eyes. Luckily for Ryan, Dylan is a freak.

 

He’s only there for fifteen minutes, all told, listening to Nick talk shit and fielding increasingly insistent texts from Lawson Crouse, before he’s back in his body. He’s on the bench, but only for about five seconds before he’s ushered over the boards and onto the ice.

Later, during a lull in play, Connor leans over to him.

“You okay?” he asks, and he must see Ryan’s surprised look, because he laughs. “You seemed — off. I don’t know, for a few minutes there you were playing kinda like Dylan.”

Ryan says, “Whatever, Davo. I’m fine.” He doesn’t know what to think about the fact that Connor can apparently tell Dylan apart by his skating and — what? His shot? The way he taps for the puck? How he looks at Connor across the ice? Maybe all of that. It’s too weird.

Ryan doesn’t think about all the ways that Connor knows him, too. It’s not worth it.

 

He texts Dylan about it: _howd u like ur taste of the nhl_

Dylan texts back a shrugging emoji and then _it was the oilers so eh whatevr_

It makes Ryan smile despite himself. _wow check that ego_ , he says.

_nah_ , Dylan sends back, and that’s that.

 

It happens again two weeks later. He’s in Arizona for almost three hours. This time Dylan is the one on the ice, so Ryan spends ten minutes trying to figure out what the fuck he’s doing, and then avoiding his teammates’ annoyed looks. It would be better if he could pick any of them out of a lineup other than Crouse and Merkley, who isn’t even playing.

He gets an assist in the second period, and that seems like it’s enough to get them off his back. Tucson wins the game, which is more than can be said for the Oilers, recently. He spends the rest of the time in Dylan’s hotel room, fucking around on Dylan’s phone — it’s fortunate that Dylan has his fingerprint set up to unlock it, otherwise Ryan would be out of luck — and avoiding any kind of conversation. Dylan is moody enough that no one gives him shit for it. He doesn’t snoop through Dylan’s camera roll, even though he could, and he doesn’t get a response when he texts his own phone. Dylan’s not looking at it, wherever he is. Ryan tries not to wonder about that, and eventually he just pulls up a movie and zones out with Dylan’s headphones on.

Then he’s back in his own body, sitting on Connor’s couch. Connor is looking at him, biting his lip.

“I wasn’t sure if I believed him,” Connor says.

Ryan blinks. “Believed who?”

Connor rubs a hand over the back of his mouth. He’s a little red. “Dylan. He said — you know what he said.”

“That we switch bodies sometimes.” Ryan can imagine. Of course the first thing Dylan did was find Connor. Of course. It’s not like Ryan didn’t know Dylan was fucked up over him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Connor says. “Fuck, that’s weird.”

“Weirder for us, probably,” Ryan says, but Connor just shakes his head. “How did he even convince you?”

Connor shrugs. “He knows some stuff, stuff that he wouldn’t have told you.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. He’d ask, but he doesn’t want to know, and Connor doesn’t offer the information. “Is that why he didn’t text me back? To busy explaining this shit to you?”

Connor looks down at his hands. “Yeah,” he says. “Mostly.”

Ryan lets it go.

 

_happy to see ur boy?_ he sends, when he’s back at his own place. Connor never really settled down, but that’s Connor. He’s easily thrown, sometimes. In Ryan’s experience, that usually leads to Connor swinging by for sex, but Ryan isn’t sure if Dylan’s involvement would change that.

Dylan sends a smiling devil face emoji, and then, _gonna admit its easier than flying_.

Ryan feels his mouth twist. He doesn’t want to get used to this. _say thanks that i won ur game for u_.

_thanks bro even tho u only got an assist_ , Dylan says, dutiful, and Ryan throws his phone on his bed, heading to the shower. He still feels kind of out of place in his own body, and he’s not sure what to do about it, except ignore it until he goes away. He jerks off under the water, washes his hair, spends an extra two minutes looking at his own face in the mirror. It looks like him. He wonders if anyone would ever be able to tell otherwise.

 

Connor shows up at Ryan’s halfway through the next week, the same way he always does when he wants something. Ryan rarely sees Connor’s place; if Connor needs something, he goes to Ryan’s. It probably doesn’t have to be that way, but Ryan savagely likes making Connor choose, and besides, if he’s not the one initiating, he can convince himself that it’s less his fault. Not that Dylan would really differentiate if he found out.

Connor dawdles on the doorstep when Ryan opens the door, but once he’s inside he’s quick to herd Ryan into the bedroom. Fucking Connor McDavid always feels a little like fucking an inlaw would, Ryan thinks, but he tries not to read into that too much. It’s a trust thing, he’s pretty sure. Connor doesn’t want to have to worry, and Ryan, despite that he’s new in Edmonton, has known him longest. Ryan hasn’t asked Connor what he did before Ryan was traded here, but sometimes he wonders — he hasn’t asked Dylan about what happened after he left Erie, either.

And even given all the weirdness the sex always good.

Connor barely looks at him, sometimes, but he kisses like he might never get to again, and when he opens Ryan up with his fingers he’s so careful. It’s not love, or anything close, but it’s hot, and they’re good together. Connor hunches over him, hips working as his dick drags inside Ryan. Ryan puts his face into the bedspread and rides it out. He comes first, going still while he lets Connor finish. He’s over sensitive, but it feels good.

Once Connor pulls out, Ryan rolls off the bed, heads into the bathroom to rinse off. Usually Connor is mostly dressed when he gets back, and it’s no different this time.

“Lunch?” Ryan asks.

Connor’s still flushed across his cheeks, visible even underneath the stubble. He’s grown up a lot in Edmonton. “Sure,” he says, and he lets Ryan make him a sandwich. He might fuck Ryan again afterward, if he’s still feeling antsy.

Those days are good. Ryan thinks, sometimes, about telling Dylan, but he doesn’t.

 

Over the next month, Ryan flashes into Dylan’s life four times — twice too quickly to do much more than get an impression, once for about fifteen minutes while Dylan is eating dinner with his team, and once that lasts overnight. He spends the evening at a bar with Dylan’s team, and then back at Nick Merkley’s, getting high and watching stupid youtube videos. He’s lucky that none of this involves much intimate conversation. He falls asleep in Merkley’s guest room, and wakes up there, too. He gets up, starts making coffee, and then he’s back in his own bed.

_what the fuck did u do in my body?_ he texts Dylan when he gets up to make coffee a second time. His back and thighs are sore, and his muscles ache with exhaustion.

_went out on the town with my boy davo duh_ , Dylan says. _sry bout those pap photos_.

Ryan can’t tell how much he’s joking. When he asks Connor, Connor just shrugs.

“He’s making it sound worse than it is,” Connor says. “We just did a little drinking.”

Ryan frowns, but it’s not like he can change anything now. “Tell him to be a little nicer to my body next time,” he says.

Connor smiles, quick. “Yeah, sure,” he says.

 

He finds a bruise, later, when he’s in the shower. Just a small red mark on the side of his rib cage. It could be from anything — Dylan wobbling his body into a doorknob, or a stick catching him during practice — but it bothers him that he doesn’t know.

 

The Oilers keep losing more than they’re winning. Ryan doesn’t stay on Connor’s line long, bounces around the lineup trying to find his game. It’s frustrating, but there’s not much more he can do except work hard and wait for the luck to come.

He goes out drinking with the guys after a rare win, and watches Leon put beer after beer away, watches Connor sit in the corner of the booth they’ve staked out and nurse his. Darnell is dancing, clearly enjoying himself. Ryan lets himself get a little drunk.

“You’re so serious,” he says to Connor, and laughs at the expression on his face.

“Someone has to get all of you home safely,” Connor says. There’s a look in his eye that Ryan recognizes, almost appraising. He’s thinking about it. Ryan is too.

“That’s what cabs are for, dude,” Ryan says. He takes a picture of Connor’s face, the light in the bar almost too dark to make out, and sends it to Dylan. He captions it _looks like im the one drinking w ur boy davo tonite_.

Dylan texts back a few indignant grumpy faces. Ryan sticks his phone back in his pocket, dedicates himself to finishing his beer, and the one after that.

Later, Connor drives him home, and comes inside. Connor pushes him face down on his own bed and fucks him there, Connor still standing at the edge of the mattress, his pants pushed down his thighs. Connor’s fingers are tight on his hips, keeping them in the air, and the angle is good for Ryan. He jerks off, two, three strokes, and then comes all over himself.

The room is slowly spinning, and he digs his hands in the comforter to hold himself still while Connor keeps dicking into him. Connor comes with a grunt, his hips working. Ryan didn’t even have to suggest anything.

“Get some sleep,” Connor says, after he pulls out. Ryan hears the water running in the bathroom sink, and then he’s waking up the next morning, sticky and hungover, with the realization that he fell asleep on top of his covers. His back is tight from how he’d held his body up, and his thighs ache. It’s not a terrible feeling, but he turns the shower on slightly too hot and lets it beat down onto him, working the tension out of his muscles. Idly, he wonders what it would take for Connor to stay over. Morning sex doesn’t sound half bad.

_good night??_ he finds, later, on his phone. Dylan.

_not horrible_ , he sends back. _in fact pretty ok_

 

He starts to end up at Dylan’s more regularly as the season wears on. It’s usually not for longer than few hours, but sometimes it’s more like an entire day. He gets used to Dylan’s team, and driving around Tucson. He asks Dylan for shit to do, and he plays more video games than he should. Dylan is weirdly distant when they’re switched like this. Ryan figures he’s hanging with Connor, since Connor knows that this happens, and Dylan wouldn’t get to see him much otherwise. Dylan’s always been more than a little gone on Connor McDavid, in that way where Ryan couldn’t even make fun of him about it. He’s not surprised anymore when they switch back and he’s sitting on Connor’s couch, or at the kitchen table. Once Dylan has clearly been napping in Connor’s guest room — Ryan comes back to his body and he’s stripped down to his boxers, underneath the covers. This is the most time he’s spent in Connor’s apartment since he was traded to Edmonton, and it’s only because Dylan’s the one taking his body there.

He’s never as sore as that first night, but it still happens sometimes. A few extra bruises, a muscle twinge, just a little pain to show that someone else was using his body. There isn’t much he can do about it.

 

The Oilers lose. Tucson wins. Ryan feels like he plays about as many minutes for one team as for the other. Connor fucks him more often, stays longer and more regularly afterward. They eat more than few meals together, and a few times they even fool around on the couch afterwards, a movie on in the background. The sex is better, less cursory, and Ryan finds himself letting Connor push him down over the kitchen counter, or the arm of the couch. Once, memorably, Connor lets Ryan fuck him in the entranceway, most of their clothes still on. It feels more spontaneous. Ryan likes it.

 

_u have got to keep more food in ur house dude_ , Dylan sends him, just after they switch back. It had lasted for almost six hours, and Ryan nearly ran out of America’s Next Top Model to watch.

_oh so that’s why you spend all your time at davos_ , Ryan sends from Connor’s couch. Connor is showering, so Ryan hasn’t gotten to ask what they were up to, but Ryan feels sweaty, like maybe they’d gone for a run, or to the gym in Connor’s apartment building. _not because he’s your bff or anything_ , he adds, because it’s better than needling Dylan about being in love with Connor. He’d just feel shitty about that, especially with how often Ryan and Connor are hooking up now.

_hes not that great as a person but he makes a good grilled cheese_ , Dylan says.

Ryan doesn’t respond, because Connor emerges from the bedroom in a towel. He smiles crookedly at Ryan and says, “Hey, you’re still here.”

“You tired me out, whatever you did,” Ryan says. “Why can’t you and Dylan do normal shit like watch TV or get high?”

Connor laughs, face flushed from the steam, but he doesn’t say anything before he drops his towel and straddles Ryan’s lap, the water still clinging to his thighs soaking into Ryan’s sweatpants.

“Too tired to get off?” Connor asks, grinding down into Ryan’s lap. 

Ryan rubs his thumbs into the cut of Connor’s hips, liking the way it makes Connor shiver. “Hm, let me think about it,” he says. And then, when Connor raises his eyebrows, “Okay, do your worst.”

 

He’s bumming around Dylan’s when he finds the picture on Dylan’s phone. At first he doesn’t know what he looking at, but then he realizes — it’s his mouth on Connor’s dick, his hand down the front of his own pants, jerking off. And he knows he wasn’t there. That wasn’t him. It’s not that he hasn’t sucked Connor off before, it’s that he’d remember it, if that were him. And there wouldn’t be photographic evidence of it.

First he wonders how Dylan convinced Connor to take the picture, and then he wonders how it got on Dylan’s phone — maybe he sent it to himself and deleted it from Ryan’s. Then he’s so angry he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

_youre fucking connor in my body????_ he texts, from Dylan’s phone to his own. They’re probably fucking right now. They’re probably in Connor’s bed, and there isn’t anything Ryan can do about it. He’s still in Tucson, in Dylan’s body, and Ryan can’t make them switch back. He sends, _u asshole answer me_ , and then just manages not to hurl Dylan’s phone at the wall.

He wonders if Connor can tell the difference between fucking Ryan and fucking Dylan in Ryan’s body, but that’s stupid, of course he can. He could tell them apart by skating alone.

Hours later, Dylan texts back. _i can explain_ , he says. And then, _i couldnt help it_.

It’s not an excuse. Ryan doesn’t know if Dylan is trying to make it one. It’s also not an apology.

Ten minutes later Dylan adds, _u didnt tell me u were fucking him either_. Like that could somehow make them even.

If Dylan had asked, Ryan would probably have said no, but he can’t be sure, and it changes nothing. It doesn’t matter that Ryan has been sleeping with Connor all season. It’s different when it’s his body but he’s not in it.

When he gets back, he’s still at Connor’s place. He’s clothed, which is good, but he knows what the soreness in his body means, and it’s not from the gym. He feels so stupid, naive, that he’d ever actually thought that. Connor looks at him with wide, guilty eyes, hopeful eyes, and Ryan leaves without saying a word.

 

_i should have told you_ , Ryan sends to Dylan, once he’s calmed down a little. _but fuck you if you think that makes this okay_.

_im sorry,_ Dylan sends, but it turns out an apology doesn’t make him feel better either.

 

Connor and Ryan don’t fuck anymore. Connor tries to pull Ryan aside once, after practice, but Ryan brushes him off. Connor is too smart to make a scene in front of the team, especially with the way they’re playing, so he lets Ryan give him the cold shoulder. Ryan lets himself feel what minuscule triumph he can manage.

That doesn’t change how often Dylan and Ryan switch places. He should have wondered earlier why it was happening so often now, why now and not when Ryan was in Brooklyn, why not when Dylan was still in Erie. But Connor and Ryan were never in the same place before. Now they are. It’s the next best thing to Dylan being here.

He wonders how Dylan would feel, if Ryan were the one using his body without asking. He thinks about doing it — Dylan’s got friends who would fuck him, and a car, Ryan could pick someone up, Ryan could send Dylan pictures — but Ryan doesn’t have the stomach for it. It wouldn’t make them stop.

Ryan is pretty sure Connor and Dylan are still fucking, but he can’t tell for sure. He wonders, do they really love each other so much, that they’re willing to do this to him? They must.

 

_ryan, please_ , Dylan texts, but Ryan doesn’t respond. Dylan has called nine times. Ryan doesn’t have anything to say.

 

_come over_ , Connor texts him, an hour later. _let me explain_. Ryan stares at the text for ten minutes and doesn’t reply. He doesn't know why Connor expects Ryan to reply to him when he won’t talk to his own brother.

Half an hour later, Connor tries again: _i could switch you and leave you that way_ , he says. _come over_.

Ryan texts him back, _i hate you_ , but he goes.

It’s funny how it’s maybe the first time Connor has invited him over, and not just shown up himself. There was probably a time where that would have meant something to Ryan.

 

Connor is wearing comfortable sweats and his hair is wet when he answers the door. He looks — tired, maybe contrite. Ryan can still remember how comfortable they were together. He shifts his weight and doesn’t speak.

“Please,” Connor says, and so Ryan follows him inside and sits next to him on the couch.

“You do know how to switch us, then,” Ryan says, not a question. 

Connor’s mouth quirks up in one corner, a partial smile, and he shrugs. “Of course. Yeah.”

Ryan hears him say Dylan’s name, the sound of it so fond, and then Ryan is standing in Dylan’s kitchen, staring down at Dylan’s phone. There’s a text from Connor on the screen that just says, _it’s gonna be alright ❤️ love you._ And then Ryan’s back on the couch, and Connor is holding his hand. He tugs back like he’s been burned.

Fuck.

“How could you?” It’s an inadequate question, but Ryan doesn’t know how else to begin.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Connor says. “He was just — he was here. We were together. It just happened, I couldn’t stop it.”

“You couldn’t keep yourself from fucking my brother in my body?”

“No, I — it just happened.”

“And then kept happening,” Ryan says.

“Yeah.” Connor’s mouth twists, but he’s still looking at Ryan.

Ryan takes a breath, ignoring how it shakes. “Why keep fucking me, then? If you had Dylan?”

“It was fun, and I liked it,” Connor says. “Also I thought you might suspect — if you weren’t having sex at all, I mean —”

“God,” Ryan says. “What better way to cover up for any bruises.”

There’s a silence, but Ryan is obviously right. He didn’t love Connor, not really, not the way Dylan does, but to be so ruthlessly used is a betrayal he still wasn’t expecting, even after everything. It makes him feel ill.

Connor looks away, then, but he starts talking again. Even though Ryan doesn’t want to hear it he can’t make himself move. It’s all useless anyway. He doesn’t have the power to stop them.

“I love Dylan, and this is a chance for us to be together again.” Connor pauses, like he’s deciding what to say. “I don’t want to stop, and I know he doesn’t either.”

Ryan already knew that. “That’s so fucked up,” he says. An understatement.

“I know,” Connor says. “And I — Ryan, I like you a lot. I know you don’t care, you hate me now, but I like hooking up with you. You're a good teammate. You're a good _guy_. It's just — with Dylan it’s different. He’s — just, look.”

Connor grabs his phone from the coffee table, unlocking it and pulling up a video. He presses it into Ryan’s hands and then reaches forward to press play. Ryan thinks he knows that this is going to be, but he doesn’t throw the phone, and he doesn’t leave. It’s sick, but part of him wants to know what they’ve been doing with his body. He wants to be sure.

“Look how good we are together, Ryan,” Connor says, and on the screen, there’s Ryan’s body, facedown on the mattress while Connor fucks him. Dylan’s louder than Ryan, and it shows — he whines every time Connor pushes inside him, his whole body shuddering.

“Oh, oh, please,” Dylan says, with Ryan’s mouth.

“Why are you showing me this? Christ.” He can’t look away. It sounds like him, but it sounds like Dylan, too. That tone, though he’s never heard him sound exactly that way.

“You’re so good,” the Connor on the screen says. “Look at you.”

“Connor, please, I need,” Dylan says, and then he screams as Connor leans over him, biting into his ear. He sounds like he could cry and he would love it. If the bite left a mark, Ryan never noticed, and he has to keep himself from checking now.

“I needed you to see him, to understand,” Connor says, wrapping a hand around Ryan’s wrist, his grip warm and tight. “He needs me so much, and I love him. It’s hard for him, being so far away. Being here, together, and not using that time? It was worse. Torture.”

Connor leans closer, his chin on Ryan’s shoulder, his breath on Ryan’s neck. He seems unsure, but determined, and Ryan recognizes it from every game they’ve played together. They’ve been this close so many time. Closer. Ryan’s hands are shaking, but he can’t make himself pull away. In the video, Dylan writhes, and Connor thrusts into him hard enough to push his body further up on the bedspread. Dylan is crying now, like it’s too good. The camera is shaking with the force of Connor’s movements.

“Love you, please, please,” Dylan says, and his voice breaks when he comes. Connor‘s fingers tighten on Ryan’s wrist and Ryan gasps, watching his own body collapse onto the bed, Connor shushing Dylan as he keeps fucking into him. Ryan should stop the video, leave, even though he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop them. He can barely think. On the screen, Connor is rolling Dylan over, Dylan in Ryan’s body, and kissing and kissing him. They’re the real thing. Ryan feels something inside him twist, thinking about it. He’s never seen that before. That desperation.

“He needs me,” Connor says. “I don’t want things to be bad between us, but I’m not going to stop. I can’t.”

Ryan takes a deep breath, and it shakes when he exhales. Connor is still touching him, like that could anchor him. Like an anchor would help. “You didn’t even tell me. You didn't ask. You just did what you wanted.” 

“Would you have said yes if we’d asked?” Connor shakes his head, his hair brushing Ryan’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Ryan says. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because you’re not going to stop even if I ask you to.”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but that’s enough of an answer on its own.

 

It’s 1AM when Ryan finally texts Dylan back: _you win_

Dylan replies, _i’m sorry its just until the offseason_ , but Ryan has his doubts.

**Author's Note:**

> and then ryan was saved by getting traded to the rangers, i guess.


End file.
